


Utterly Appropriate

by wynnebat



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/F, Female Peter Hale, Female Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Misunderstandings, Pining, Rule 63, au where gay marriage is a totally accepted regency thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 14:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3854173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only one person whom Stiles would marry, and whoever has asked for her hand isn't on that list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Utterly Appropriate

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this ridiculousness. It's not even properly regency because I don't really know anything about the regency genre (other than reading Megan Derr's awesome Deceived series a couple years ago and Pride and Prejudice in middle school).

Stiles had never been a particularly respectful child, by society's standards. There wasn't a private conversation she didn't care to overhear. Illicit romances were quite boring, but Stiles' pleasure at raising knowing eyebrows wasn't; collusions between upstanding business owners brought many rewards, both for entrepreneurs and the innocent young lady who accidently stumbled upon them and got the wrong impression; but the best conversations were between people Stiles actually knew and cared for.

Now, at eighteen, Stiles was hardly a child any longer. This only meant that she'd been alive long enough to perfect her techniques.

It was especially easy in her own home. She only had to spread mountain ash across the house. Already saturated with her magic, the mountain ash settled in discrete places and sang its song into her core. It had taken Stiles almost two years to perfect the technique, despite her magister's firm ideas of what should and shouldn't be done with magic. At first, she'd only wanted to be noticed in the crowd of Deaton's apprentices; once she'd succeeded, the thought of someone else using her techniques kept her mouth firmly shut.

It was a pity the substance was so tightly controlled and so expensive, because she could think of so many interesting, unorthodox uses for a pinch of magic dust. But she needed every speck in her training, and her stash was already much smaller than some of the other apprentices'.

As she turned her metaphorical ear to the conversation in her mother's study, Stiles began to feel much less devious, and more mystified than an aspiring magister (and, more importantly, daughter) should be.

"I could remarry," Jo was saying.

The words were foreign to Stiles' ears. Her mother had never talked of marriage, not after Claus passed away ten years ago.

"Your spouse might take offence at your devotion to the office," said Penelope, her deputy.

Jo scoffed. "He can take a mistress if he favors a warm body over the safety of our town." Faintly, the sound of footsteps transmitted through the ash; Jo was pacing the room, as she often did in times of stress. "I know, I know," she said to an unspoken reply, "I'd never make the best wife. Hell, I haven't gotten an offer in years, and I haven't made one in even longer."

"And your daughter?"

"A couple, since her first season. Two in the past few months, both serious offers of marriage." With shame in her voice, Jo said, "I considered one of them, God help me. After the nogitsune incident, I can barely even afford to keep this house in its proper condition. If her spouse could bear the cost of her education, at least, then perhaps..."

For a moment, Stiles thought her magic had failed her, but it was only her blood pounding its way through her veins, drowning out her mother's voice. Her magic had never failed her, not like life seemed like it would.

Unlike many of her peers, Stiles had never seriously considered getting married. As a spark, she had a little more leeway, and had attained an apprenticeship as soon as possible, quashing any hope someone may have had for asking for her hand. One couldn't start a new life with someone while tied so completely to a magister, she knew, though her best friend Celia was certainly trying.

Jo and Penelope's conversation continued to another, less depressing topic, and Stiles almost tripped over her skirts in her haste to get a breath of fresh air. Her mother's words echoed through her head.

Who had asked for her hand in marriage? Ever since accepting an apprenticeship, Stiles spoke to few people on a regular basis. To Celia, who was smitten with Andres; to her fellow students, who hadn't expressed any lasting kind of interest; to Lysander, who was married to Ara or Jasmine, depending on whom you asked; to Dana, whose glares were only those of friendship, Stiles had assumed; to her magister, Alana, who barely consented to teach magic, let alone express romantic interest; and to Petra, but Stiles could never be so lucky.

It could be Harris, Stiles thought with a shudder.

Or worse, she realized. It could be Deucalion. She could almost see Deucalion's cold blue eyes, always unnerving despite the fact that she'd never directly caused Stiles harm, beckoning her to come into the fold of the darkest arts. In marriage, their magic would be pooled, and Stiles could already envision Deucalion's cane poking at her back as she pushed Stiles into a gilded cage and threw away the key.

So hurried was she, that she didn't notice the carriage pull up near the house, nor the figure step take a step out onto the path. It was only the call of, "Stiles!" that jarred her out of her worsening thoughts.

Even though she was turned away, Stiles recognized Petra. By her voice, lightly accented from years away from Beacon Hills, and by the sharp clicks of her heels that spelled doom for anyone Petra disliked. She spun around.

"Are you well?" Petra asked.

Brokenly, Stiles murmured, "My mother... Arranged marriage... I don't..." She could barely get it out, but it seemed that Petra understood her anyway.

"You just found out?" Petra asked, a strange expression flitting across her face. "I thought you'd known."

Petra knew? Never mind, Petra knew everything. Glaring, even though there was a wetness in her eyes that lessened the effect considerably, Stiles said, "You couldn't have told me earlier?" Running a hand through her hair, tugging at the uneven ends, she shook her head. "Never mind. It doesn't matter." Stiles wondered, why couldn't it have been Petra who'd pressed a suit? But Petra had already been married once before, and for as long as Stiles had known her, she'd never hinted at wanting something permanent. "I'm saying no, of course. I can't marry someone I can't love."

"Oh," Petra said, and there was something soft in her voice, softer than Stiles had ever heard. In the next moment, it was gone. "And what kind of person has taken up so much of your loyalty?"

 _You,_ Stiles wanted to say. It had only been Petra, who'd drowned out Stiles' teenaged crushes without ever even noticing. "No one." Futile anger at the whole situation coursed through her, and her words came out choked with suppressed tears.

Petra peered at her under long, dark lashes. "Are you about to cry on me?"

Stiles choked out a laugh, because if there was one thing that could make her friend run for the nemeton, it was someone's self-pitying tears. And yet, when Petra held out her hand for the handkerchief and Stiles took it as an invitation for a hug, Petra held her tightly, resting her chin on Stiles' head as Stiles curled into her. "There, there," Petra said, sighing and patting her shoulder. "You mustn't cry about these things. It's unseemly."

Not that Petra cared about propriety in many situations, Stiles thought fondly. " _You're_ unseemly."

A pause. And then, thoughtfully, "I am, aren't I," Petra said.

Stiles stepped back just far enough to look into Petra's eyes. "And lovely. And manipulative." But never to Stiles' loss. "And my friend." And fierce, and beautiful, and Stiles had wanted to be like her at first, before she realized she'd much rather kiss her instead.

"Your loyal friend," Petra said, pressing a kiss to Stiles' forehead, and letting go. Stiles felt chilled with the loss of Petra's arms, despite the ever-present long gloves that Petra wore. "Is there anyone you might prefer to marry instead? Someone I might influence to ask for your hand?"

Stiles shook her head.

"You were quite fond of Dana, if I remember correctly."

Stiles made a face. "That was _years_ ago."

It had been through Dana that Stiles had first met Petra, and it had been through Petra that Stiles' crush on Dana had fizzled into nothingness almost along the course of a night. Dana was pretty and glare-y and much smarter than her reticence to speak implied, but her aunt had pushed a lock of Stiles' hair behind her ear when Stiles had almost knocked her down in the library, and pulled Stiles' heart along through her perfectly manicured nail. Stiles might've thought it was magic, but she'd only felt the rapid beating of first love.

And then the first love continued on, even through teenage embarrassment and lust and Petra's love of manipulation.

"But you wouldn't mind...?"

For a moment, Stiles considered it, because it was her mother's livelihood on the line. She could marry Dana, and live in a suite in the Hale estate, and share a last name with Petra even if it wasn't the way she'd like. It wouldn't be a bad future. But Dana would never make her happy, and Stiles doubted that Dana wouldn't eventually notice how Stiles looked at her aunt. It wasn't a long-term solution.

"No. I couldn't do that. To her or to me. I'll go to Finstock," she finally decided. "There's a market for magical trinkets; with some training, I'm sure I can learn."

If she quit her apprenticeship (and it wouldn't be a great loss; she was only one of many studying under Deaton, and the great magister of London barely noticed her in favor of her dear friend Celia) and became employed, their small household could find its way. Her mother had tried to protect her; now it would be Stiles' duty to protect her mother, their responsibilities flipped.

"That's never been your field of interest... But I'm sure you'll make an excellent magician."

Stiles considered the prospects, although they made her heart cold: long hours spent crouched over a mirror, pouring in as much magical energy as her soul could provide, molding it with a blunt hand. All for a mirror that would spout pretty, vapid compliments at its user. It would be such a crude use of her magical talents; it would have to do.

"You'll do well, even though it'll be a waste of your talents," Petra said, echoing Stiles' thoughts. Perhaps she was frustrated by it too, because her tone turned bitter when she added, "Would the marriage truly have been so bad?"

All Stiles had to do was think of Deucalion, before saying, "Yes," her voice utterly sincere.

Petra left soon after, without even saying why she came in the first place. It was curious, but Stiles had other things on her mind. And she could ask Petra about it soon enough; from now on, Stiles would spend all her time in Beacon Hills, instead of mostly living in London, oblivious to her mothers' troubles.

By dinnertime, Stiles had penned three different copies of a letter to Barbara Finstock, each with less elaborate language and less passion for requesting the job. Deaton's letter had taken only one draft; she doubted he would even bother to reply. It was only Celia to whom Stiles hesitated to write. Their lives had changes so much. No longer were they the best friends they'd been in childhood, making their governesses' lives hell and dancing together for the first dance of their first season. Their friendship had evolved into a tired, straining thing over the years, between Celia's Andres and distrust of Petra, between Stiles' slide into the grayer side of magics and the night that not even Celia knew the details of, for all that it would always hang over their friendship.

It was the epicenter of the end of their friendship: the first time Celia had called on Stiles and Stiles couldn't answer, having been hundreds of miles away, washing the blood of Kieran Argent from her steady hands, Petra's hand on her shoulder. It had been the first time that Stiles encountered true evil, in the form of a man willing to kill an entire innocent family for the crime of having magic. It had been the first, and the only, time Stiles had thought that Petra might just kiss her. (She'd been mistaken.)

It had been the first time in their friendship that Celia hadn't been able to count on Stiles, but not the last, as they fell deeper into their apprenticeships and friendships and separate lives. And as the dinner bell rang and Stiles found her way to the dining room, it wasn't Celia who was on Stiles' mind.

"I overheard your conversation with Penelope," Stiles said as Jo Stilinski brought a spoonful of soup to her mouth. She didn't bother trying to be circumspect about it; there was little subtlety about marrying someone for money.

"Do you listen in on my conversations often?"

"That isn't the point."

Jo's raised eyebrow said otherwise, but instead, her mother sighed and shook her head. "Then you also heard my reasoning. You're my daughter; I'd never force you into doing something you don't want to do. But marrying Petra Hale would open pathways for you that staying a Stilinski wouldn't."

 _Oh,_ Stiles thought. _So this is what it's like, to feel like the world has gone mad._

Her mother kept speaking. "I'd like you to consider it, at least." And before Stiles could say she really didn't need convincing—that she would quite happily throw herself into Petra's arms, provided she was welcome—Jo added, "I know she is quite a bit older than you, and the mother of one of your friends, and not conventionally attractive—"

Stiles had to start at that, because never had unattractive been a word she associated with her friend. And then she thought of the burns that curled into Petra's right cheek and down across her neck and along parts of her that Stiles thought she'd only see in dreams. But the burns hardly lessened the beauty of the rich brown hair that fell in waves around them, nor the gaze of her blue eyes.

"—and her moral fiber isn't quite up to the church's standards—"

Stiles could've snorted, but she restrained herself. Her mother was trying to convince her, after all. Though if her mother truly thought she wouldn't sign a marriage contract today if it meant Petra's name was on the other line, then they must have grown too distant over the past few years.

"—and frankly there's still something off about—"

"Petra Hale wants to marry me?" Stiles asked. It was a silly question. It was an equally silly urge inside her that yearned to hear it from a voice outside her head.

Jo nodded, and explained, "She came to me with an offer while you were in London. The dowry was generous, and the contract's stipulations were very equitable, even in your favor."

And Stiles had turned her down that day, saying she'd prefer to drain her magic that marry her. "I must go," Stiles said, dropping her utensils and her napkin and the chair in her haste. She was out of the door in moments, and then with a thought, she flitted inside once more. When her mother glanced at her, Stiles' cheeks were flushed. "I love her," she said, truthful like she hasn't been in very long.

She had never revealed it to anyone, treating it almost like a sin when it could only be a virtue to be in love. Petra wasn't virtuous, nor very kind (to those she didn't consider hers, and until now Stiles had assumed she'd just been an extension of Dana or Laurent, not wanted on her own measure), but Stiles had never loved another more. And it wasn't as though Stiles was a paragon, after all. She was just a woman, and the realization that she was loved had sent her heart into somersaults.

It was uncomfortable, to be so bare, to speak of her feelings, and yet she had to say, "Please don't speak poorly of my future wife."

Jo huffed, because her mother was the first to teach her to think little of others' judgments of her character, and said, "I'll begin the wedding arrangements, then."

"Don't expect me to arrange anything tonight," Stiles said with a wide grin, and rushed off with her mother's groan in the background. It would take more than a wedding to pry her away from Petra once she found her.

Her feet only touched every third stair as she ran out of the house. Unlike earlier, Petra wasn't there to greet her. But that was alright; Stiles would be able to find her anywhere. She slid into her mother's carriage, and, too impatient to bother with the horse, ran her magic through it until its wheels began to spin. Slowly, she picked up her pace until she could've almost outrun a horse, and rode along the well-worn path.

In London, it would have been anathema to do such a thing. Magic wasn't as accepted in the big cities—too many people fearing magisters might take over their minds and whatnot, and others looking down on it as a dirty trade—but here in Beacon Hills, with the nemeton so close, it was a welcome part of keeping the peace.

She passed the McCall home, seeing Celia across the lawn as she used her break to practice cricket, and rode off along the road until she reached the woods. Riding easily past the magical barrier, Stiles picked up her pace and emerged into a large clearing where the Hale manor lay. One knock on the door and a wave to the butler later, Stiles was barging her way into Petra's private study without a care for privacy.

She found her sitting in an armchair near the fire, an accounting journal spread open on her lap. The only allowances Petra had made for emotion were the tumbler of whiskey near her hand and utterly ruined posture as she leaned back into the seat.

"Leave me be," Petra said, not bothering to even look at Stiles.

Stiles sat down in the chair across from hers. She had nothing to fear from Petra's resulting glare; she never had, not even before she'd found out how much she meant to her.

"I didn't know it was you," Stiles explained. "I thought it was _Deucalion_."

"That explains your horror," Petra replied.

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

Petra shrugged. "I'd hoped your mother might give you time to think on it. And with some thought, even without any feelings for me, you would see it as the best choice."

It was an awful plan, if Stiles could say. And she could, since she was the fly in Petra's proverbial web. "Did you hope I'd develop feelings for you afterwards?" Had Petra planned her time, thought hard about how to seduce her? Had Stiles been less in love, Petra's manipulations might have made her run for the nemeton; instead, she was strangely charmed. And saddened, because what if this Stiles in Petra's plans had never fallen for her? (But Stiles doubted there could be a universe in which she wasn't in love with Petra.)

Petra flinched. It was barely noticeable; had Stiles not known her so well, she might not have seen it.

Quickly, Stiles added, "I think it might help your plan, to know that I love you."

"Do you?" Petra closed her book, setting it aside, and her gaze still wary as it fell on Stiles. She was still hesitant to trust, and Stiles wished they could've avoided this earlier that day. She wished that at one of the many times she'd felt the urge, she'd actually kissed Petra as she'd wanted to. But it was moot, because neither had Petra made a move, one that wasn't fraught with manipulation.

"Very much," Stiles softly said, and reached until she could grasp one of Petra's hands and press her lips against the gloved knuckles.

Slowly, Petra pulled her hand out of Stiles' grasp, and placed it under her chin, urging Stiles closer than the width between their chairs allowed. Stiles acquiesced, falling into Petra's lap with a lack of grace neither noticed, because soon she finally felt Petra's lips on hers. She'd dreamed of this, thought of it often, but nothing could've prepared her for such all-encompassing warmth. Of body, yes: Petra's hands around her waist, pressing them closer; her mouth, so soft and thorough; her body, under layers of cloth but closer than ever before. But also of soul: she'd never felt so beloved as she did now, with Petra not even a breath away. Stiles could almost swoon. She wouldn't, of course, because Petra would never let her live it down.

Petra's smile was smug and contagious as they pulled apart. "I believe this means my plan worked."

Stiles laughed, and kissed her again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Complete; no sequel planned.


End file.
